Lightless - Chapter Two
by DavidKennedyDK
Summary: Yami is a prisoner on the world of Naraka, a world of perpetual darkness and death. When he is conscripted to join the Narakan Penal Legions, he considers himself lucky; at least he won't have to worry about being eaten alive in the dark by the nightwolves. But the war that Yami is sent to fight may be even worse than the hell of Naraka.


Yami fiddled in the dark with the lighter, blind hands striking the flint trigger with an erratic tremor. He felt the rough metal on his calloused thumb and flicked, sparking a flash of orange flames at the end of the nozzle. The tiny fire bobbed in his hand, flickering as the last dregs of oil were soaked up by the wick.

"Hey c'mon now Yam, you've had enough. Let someone else use it!" grunted the Old Man; his voice sounded like a hydraulic grinder with a thick accent.

Yami scowled at him, "Leave me alone!"

Yami joylessly licked at his bottom lip, swollen from when he had fallen face first into the dirt in the mad rush from the door. He could feel a chipped tooth on his bottom teeth where the stones had hit him. He shook with the cold as his fingers tried to spark the lighter again.

"Stop being a hog new boy!" Came a scolding voice from beside him.

"Fine, have it." Yami offered through his half-conscious slurs. His head felt thick and heavy, it was so dark in the prison, and it felt as if the void was sinking in behind his eyes.

"I don't need it." Bucket answered from the corner, Yami could hear his foot tapping an anxious cadence on the concrete floor.

"I'll take it. Thanks, Yami," came a voice off to his left. Yami leaned over and handed the lighter to the darkness. He felt spidery fingers pluck the tiny metal trinket from his palm. A moment later and a flame sparked in the night like a candle. For half a second, it illuminated a face.

Yami had only been on Haraka for two days, but he had already gotten to know a few of the other prisoners. The one who had taken the light from him was Carmillo, some kind of salaried man; a city-liver from some far flung world. He had said he was from Hive Zekunda, wherever that was, but hadn't said much else.

Bucket was a piece of work; most everyone thought he was crazy. He didn't say much to add to a conversation, but whenever the other prisoners caught sight of him, they could see the glint of the steel bucket on his head. He insisted that it kept his head safe.

Lastly was the old man, Yami caught sight of a long beard and braided hair in the dark. He wasn't really that old, maybe in his forties. But here on Haraka, anyone who lived that long was considered ancient. No one that Yami had asked knew how he had survived for so long.

As for Yami, the others had warmed up to him despite how afraid he was of the dark. Most of them seemed sympathetic; everyone here was afraid of the dark. The others seemed eager to take him under their wing; even the Old Man, who had offered the lighter for him to use, as a welcoming gift.

Yami tucked himself against the cold wall of the hallway, letting the back of his head hit the concrete. A red hazard light glowed above him, weak and almost useless, but enough to see by. He stared up at the light with a glazed look.

"So…how do meals work here old man?" Yami asked, his head swaying from side to side. He heard the old man clear his throat with a hacking cough.

"You'll get it when you get it. The guards like to spring stuff on us all the time, keep us on our toes. It can feel like a long time, sometimes. But there's no way to tell how long here."

Bucket snorted. "Those damned pigs run the whole world."

Carmillo cleared his throat, "So this is it then? We just sit here and wait for them to feed us?"

"You'd be smart to respect the guards, hive-born," the Old Man warned, "they can always be listening in, and there's no way to tell. There's no schedule, there's no calendar. There's whatever they want, when they want it."

"Well I hope they don't leave it too late. I haven't had anything to eat all day!" Carmillo added. He snapped the lighter on again, and his grey face was illuminated by another burst of orange light.

"You wanna put that thing away boy. The guards will beat you into a puddle if they catch you with it."

Carmillo scoffed at him, flicked off the lighter and handed it to the Old Man. "It's your lighter."

"It's good for introductions. Can't really see faces in this light." The Old Man pointed up at the hazard lights above their head. The lambent red glow of the bulbs gave the hallway an eerie feel.

"Can't really see shit." Bucket growled. The hallway was chilled by a constant cold breeze that swept down from the northward wing. The other prisoners around them had found their own seats as well; some huddled together for warmth, some rocking back and forth in the corners.

Yami sighed as the time dragged on. His stomach growled underneath him. With a start, he realized that Carmillo was right; they hadn't eaten in at least two days, not since they got off the transport.

"So I guess I should ask...How did everyone get here?" Yami asked, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach.

The Old Man was first to answer. "Blew up a trading dock back on my own world, don't even remember why I did it," he laughed with a dry throat.

"Infanticide." Bucket muttered into his sleeve, rolling onto his side. Yami felt a shiver go down his spine.

"I'm really not in the mood to be sharing that sort of information. Can't we talk about something else? Like how to get some food?" Carmillo whined.

The group stopped chatting, as they all listened intently to the groaning of their stomachs. Yami heard the quiet murmur of voices throughout the hall, until something caught his attention.

"Hey I gotta use the john!" Someone yelled, their voice echoing loudly in the tight space.

"Over here, there's a couple latrines!"

"Where's over here?"

"Over here!"

No one could find their bearings in the dark, no one could orient themselves. The lights were barely enough to see the ambient glow of their own orange jumpsuits.

Yami heard footsteps scattering towards his group. An errant foot came down out of the black to step on his toe. He let out a pained yell and kicked out with the other foot.

"Watch where yur goin!" Yami blabbered through his swollen lip, kicking out with the heel of his boot. He heard a surprised cry; felt the floor shake as a body came crashing down to the concrete stone. There was a swell of raised voices, a scuffle of boots on stone floor.

"Damnit! I'll skin your hide you grox ass!" came a gruff voice from in front of him. Yami scrambled backwards to get away, his fingernails scraping on the cold floor as he pulled himself along the wall.

There was a sharp crack as someone's head hit the wall, and several fleshy thumps as a fight broke out among the prisoners. A gust of wind past his ear told Yami that he had nearly missed a punch, aimed for his head. He struggled over invisible bodies in the pitch black, trying to get away from the fight. His heart hammered in the dark.

With one hand on the wall to guide him, and one hand held out in front of him, Yami raced down the hallway, brushing past confused prisoners. He ducked past swinging fists, allowing his sense of hearing to guide him in the tight space. He got as far as he could, until he ran headlong into something hard and unyielding. He fell backwards onto the floor with a thud, staring up at the shadowy outline of a tall figure. With a flash of blue, a stun baton crackled to life in the figure's hand.

"OFFICER ON DECK!" Screamed the Commissar, his piercing voice echoing down the narrow hallway. As though a clap of thunder had calmed the storm, the prisoners stopped fighting amongst each other and silence descended. Yami wiped cold sweat from his forehead and stared up at the sparkling blue baton.

"Everyone on your feet! On your feet now!"

The prisoners clambered to their feet, lining up along the hallway for their inspection. Yami did the same, finding the wall behind him and pulling himself up. He wiped a trickle of blood from his bottom lip, before slapping his hands against his legs and standing at attention. He heard the tramp of iron-shod boots as the figure began stalking down the hallway.

"Good to see some of you are still alive in here!" The Commissar laughed maniacally. From behind him, there was some sort of commotion as more men entered the hallway.

"Prisoners! We have some good news for you today. It seems the Emperor hasn't abandoned you fully."

It was the same officer from before, his clipped military tone filling the narrow hall. Yami could hear him very close. There was a pause as the officer appeared to look around the hall at the prisoners, probably through the lens of a night-vision augmetic.

"As you might have heard in your travels, the Narakan sector has been at war for some time now. For the most part, our own people have managed to stay out of the conflict, but recent demands of the Narakan Government have forced us to begin rebuilding our armed forces. The Governor of Naraka has decided to reinstate the Narakan Correctional Regiment, in order to fulfill the manpower quota, required from our humble world. This is where you fine men come in!"

Yami heard a murmur of discontent among the prisoners, hushed voices that whispered in disbelief.

"KEEP QUIET!" Roared the Commissar.

Yami had never heard of the conflict himself, but then again, he wasn't even from this system. He knew about the wars with aliens on distant worlds, but they had always seemed like outlandish myths, too wild to be real.

"Other than the recruitment of thermal farmers, and our own security militia, I have decided to begin conscripting from this facility! It is my decree that you men shall be given a chance at redemption in the Emperors eyes, by fighting for the preservation of the Imperium!"

"You mean dying for the Imperium!" Came a defiant shout from down the hall. Predictably, Yami heard the furious tramp of the Commissar's boots; saw the flash of his stun baton in the dark. There was a horrific cry of pain, and a body crumpled to the floor in a sizzling heap.

"Anyone else have anything to say!?" The Commissar yelled, his stun baton still sparking. No voices were raised to answer him.

"As I was saying," The Officer continued, "Conscription shall begin in one weeks' time, after we have assessed everyone's files and found them fit for service. And trust me, you will ALL be found fit for service. The manpower quota is VERY short and we will require everyone to do their duty for the Imperium. In the meantime, I encourage you all to pray as you will for the times ahead. We will all need the God-Emperors help, in the conflict to come."

The Commissar stepped forward again, his baton smoking in the darkness. " Prisoners! Give your thanks to Colonel Estus for this opportunity to redeem yourself!"

The prisoners stood silent, confused by this order. Yami stammered with his mouth open, unsure of what to say. But the Commissar didn't give him much time to ponder.

He went over to the nearest prisoner standing against the wall, and smashed his active stun baton into the man's stomach. There was a wretched, wet sound as blood and organs pooled onto the floor, a shriek of terror as the man collapsed against the wall.

"I SAID, GIVE YOUR THANKS!"

This time the prisoners were not silent. A chorus of terrified "thank you's" echoed down the hall. Yami felt himself saying it over and over again; his brain fried with the fear of that horrible Commissar and his stun baton.

"You are welcome, prisoners." The Officer concluded, his heel scraping on the stone as he about-faced and left the hallway. The Commissar followed the Officer out, and the door slammed shut behind them. The silence they left in their wake, was as thick as the darkness.


End file.
